


The Last 24 Hours (discontinued)

by Hbtrashandrants2013



Category: Hidden Block (Video Blogging RPF)
Genre: 13+, Depressing, Gen, Mental Illness, Panic, Panic Attacks, Sad, Sickness, in parts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-15 20:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7236853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hbtrashandrants2013/pseuds/Hbtrashandrants2013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the 15th December I took my own life at 5:30am. I wrote down what happened in the last 24 hours before this in a journel. One day,my sister found it and looked at it. </p>
<p>Even though she was there she never knew my mind....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hour one and two

6:30am

I wake up shaking and covered in sweat, stinging the open cuts on my arms and legs. I feel nauseous and my heart feels like it is going to burst through my chest. The dizziness and shivering is paralysing me. Can panic attacks just stop? I can hear my dog ‘Pickles’ barking downstairs. I want to go and feed him,but the attack has frozen me in fear,like I’m glued to the bed.I can't move. This is scaring me. I have had panic attacks in my sleep many times,but never to the degree that I can't move. I don't know what to do. The barking is flooding the silence in my room,making the attack start again. Great. How wonderful. 

I hear footsteps up the stairs. This is when the thoughts went 200%. 'someone has broken in' 'they are going to hurt you. you can't run. there is no point trying to block us out,it's true'. The attack goes back to full on,and at this point,I feel blood slowly dripping down my legs. The sweat had reopened one of the cuts on my leg. Blood mixed with sweat is painful, I can tell you. The owner,well owners of the footsteps come up the stairs and come in. It's Rosie and Stanley. Stan jumps on me,and licks my face. I close my eyes and cuddle him back:”Hello pickles. Could you been any louder this morning?” I look up at Rosie,to see her fallen face:”You're still having the attack,aren't you? Let me take Stanley off you…” I pull the dog closer to me. She gets that he is helping and gets her knees off the bed. She slowly goes round to the other side and sits next to me. “As you seem so preoccupied with the dog,I'll won't tell you that you smell 10 times worse than it”. She hasn't changed at all since we were kids. I smile and go back to cuddling Stanley,him burying his head in my chest. I know I need a shower,my sweat glands decided to drench me through that 6 hour attack. I desperately want to go back to sleep, but I'm scared the attacks will start up again. I burst into tears and Rosie wraps her arms around my shoulders. “You're exhausted aren't you?,you haven't slept for days,this isn't the first this week,is it? I just cry into her PJ top. I can't talk about this to her. I can't tell her this is the last night she'll ever wake up to find me like this. I'm going to end it. 

I've been planning this for a while. No one knows and that's the point. They'd stop it,like many times before. And I can't let that happen. It would mean I will end up back in hospital. I can't let that happen to me again. It's double the hell in there than it is out here. 

7:30am 

Rosie carefully helps me out of the bed,holding onto my hand along the corridor to the bathroom. I feel like I'm three again. When we get there she helps prize the wet shirt off my sticky skin. I cry in pain with this action and she rubs my back:”I'm sorry Jim,but I had to. She does the same with my pajama pants and helps me into the bath she ran,shutting the door as she leaves me alone. I look at my body and the thick scars that line every small corner of my arms,chest and legs. Anywhere I could cover up the marked skin. Only one scar is not been made by me in the last 18 months of torture is on the right hand side on my stomach. A scar from a operation. I don't really remember why,so much has happened since I was 15,it is not worth remembering.

I start to cry when the soap gets inside the fresh ones along the left hand side of my body,near my hip. I am worthless,why do I even bother to abuse myself over it? I deserve it though,I am ugly and I can't even go into town without having an attack. Why I just drown myself now? It would save the pain later. My wet hair drips down my face. I wrap a couple a strands around my finger watching it limply fall over my nose. I push it back,and a couple of hairs fall into the water. My hair’s falling out because of the little sleep and food I've had in the last few weeks. I'm a mess. A stressed out ugly mess. I feel another panic attack come on and I just curl up and cry. This is going to be fun,not even an hour gap and now another one starts. I finish washing myself and get dressed into my clean clothes and I feel even more sick. I go back into the bathroom and throw up into the toilet. The smell of the sick is overwhelming and I vomit again. I feel dizzy and I'm shivering. I feel myself hyperventilating and I must of fainted with exhaustion and sheer sacredness as I hit my head on the rim of the toilet and the lamenate floor. This makes my head ache like heck and I hear and feel Rosie slowly pick me up. I slowly reopen my eyes,she puts her hand on my head. She knows that I'm tired and I need to sleep,but I won't. 

She takes me into the living room and puts me onto the sofa bed. I cuddle into it and Rosie gets the ice pack and puts on the back of the neck. “That is a nasty bruise,isn't it? Let me get you something for it..” She leaves the room to get some painkillers and I close my eyes for a bit. I need to get a little sleep or I'll get worse...


	2. The Next Two Hours

8:30

Flashback-March 2016  
I am shaking and feel like I'm dying. My mind is telling me that if I have a full on panic attack here,I will be seen as an unstable child which will mean I will be escorted everywhere,like one. I hate the doctors,always have,but being here alone is like torture for my mind. I look around the small waiting room,there were families with screaming little children and old people who were doddering to various nurse’s room and shouting at each other. I sniff and run my index finger up my arm,along the so called suicide line,I don't want to be here. But I need to be. I need to see a doctor. I am unwell. My eyes are sore from crying so much. I see a kind looking women enter the room and see asks if she could sit next to me. I nod and she slowly sits down. I notice she looks around my mum's age and I try and not show that I'm unhappy. My mum doesn't know. My mum doesn't know that I have been feeling mentally unwell. She thinks I am fine,just a little stressed out with all the work I'm doing now. What I haven't told her is that I have been having sleepless nights,been woken up in a states of intense worry and guilt,hyperventilating and crying. My skin has been heavily coated in sweat. I would try and not wake Ceyrs,which isn't hard,and would go into my office and start playing anything,be it for a video or for fun,or work on a video. The rest of the day I would worry of it happening again and would have one in the day,mostly in front of the girls,and have to leave the situation.Then the cycle would repeat for days on end until I had to tell Shane why I was panicking about the possibility of not meeting the deadline. He convinced me to come here in case it's caused by something physical. No. It wouldn't be,I know that…

Flashback- November 2013  
I slowly walked up the stairs of my mum's home in Oxford. My legs are shaking and I feel very dizzy,I might faint. I held onto the handle on the wall. I hear footsteps. My step dad is home. He shouts ‘James’ to get me to help him with the shopping. I feel myself falling,and my hands slip off the rails;tripping backwards down the stairs. I must of hit my head on something as suddenly my head feels like someone had decided to hammer the whole of it. I try and hold the vomit inside my body and slowly stand up. My step dad gives me a disappointing look:”Haven't you grown up? Come on. Let's get this done before you sister and mum return.” I just follow him,struggling to walk,my head hurt like hell and that the sunlight was too bright for me to see where I was walking. I helped him and then when we were finished,i go into my room and collapsed on the bed,burying myself into the covers. I started to fall asleep at this point,I can still hear my step dad shouting at someone over the phone and I know he hated that I am a clumsy mess. I take the bucket I'd used as a bin and threw up in it,the smell of vomit overpowering everything else. I burst into tears and I hear footsteps. I just cover my head with a pillow and the footsteps come into the room and sit on the bed. They rub my back and take the pillow off my head. I look up,a pain running up my neck,to see a blurry outline of my mum,who kindly smiles at me. “Hey,not feeling well? You shouldn't suffer like this”. She lifts me up and notices the bruises lining my neck from the fall. “How did you do this?” She sits me up in her arms and I put my head on her and whimpered:”I f-fell down the st-stairs” I burst into a flood of tears,moving my head made it worse. I don't remember what happened next…

9:30  
The phone goes off,waking me up and I hear Rosie get it. It's probably someone who knows I am not been going to meetings down in the Maker HQ in London. Shane or Dazz. I turn over and try to get back to sleep but I couldn't. I slowly sit up,feeling a jolt of electricity down my spine. I hold on a scream. I still feel as bad as I did before. Rosie hangs up the phone and sighs. “You OK? You've been asleep for an hour,you can sleep for longer mate.” I pull the blanket over my body and lie back down against the arm of the small sofa. Rosie goes over and runs her hands through the knots in my hair. “I know you are going to ask who phoned,it was Dazz,asking how the stream was. He's going to USA next week.” She looks into my mixture hazel eyes,which are extremely dull and look dark brown, not the normal beautiful hazel-green colour they normally are. They used to be blue when I was a baby,then they were green until I was about 18 years old,then they went to this weird hazel mix. My family call them ‘puppy eyes’ as they always looked energetic and the colour wasn't human like. Looked. In the past. They haven't look as unreal in a while, just pure black. Rosie kisses my forehead and looks into them. “You're unhappy are you? When had you last take any medicine? You don't have to answer…” I wipe my sore eyes and look down at my shaking hands and stutter:”N-not in days, I do-on't know ex-exactly how long,all d-days blur into one.” 

She stands up and hugs me. “I'm going to get it, just to try and help calm you. Oh,James.” She leaves the room and I carry on crying. I feel sick. I don't want to suffer. I don't want to suffer here anymore. People say the medication always works,but it doesn't. Neither did anything else that should do. I keep being thrown between Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire NHS trusts because of where I live across the border between the counties. Adding on,Priory health care,the Mental Health and Illness group for the South,keep chucking me between NHS and there specialists for care. And I have no say in any of this ever. I feel useless. Rosie comes back in with a glass of water and both Mental Health medicine and painkillers. I slowly take them and go back to sleep. Rosie strokes me and picks up her mobile. She's phoning mum and our step dad Geoff. This can't happen. They can't come. Mum can't see me in this state. It will be extremely unfair on her. But then, I need someone to be there who is older and can look after me. But that won't be needed after today...


End file.
